Four souls

Sometimes life just quietly steps up behind you and taps you on the shoulder when you least expect it. You know, when you're busy doing other things. We don't know why. We don't know when.

That's what life does.

Rodney Walser

 So, for the Wehrles, within a two-week period, we lost four friends, each on separate days.

About 10 days ago, Kim learned that her cousin's wife, Mary Wood Willard, passed away. She was 78.

I knew Mary mostly as an acquaintance who I'd see once a year during family reunions. Our conversations were usually brief, and always friendly. But for Kim, Mary was a vessel of memories as well as a connection as they climbed and explored the branches in their family tree together. Family was important to her.

"She was a very kind person, very sweet," Kim told me through moist eyes. "I always enjoyed her company."

Ken Coleman

One of the things Kim remembered about Mary "is what a great Southern cook she was." That may not seem like much at first glance, but we all have our talents. Some of them are hidden, some of them are taken for granted, and some of them define us. We all looked forward to seeing Mary.

We went to Mary's visitation last Saturday, which was also the day a neighbor on our block, Ken Coleman, suffered a heart attack. Ken, 83, passed the following day.

Ken was a soft-spoken fellow who almost always seemed to seek me out when we were at neighborhood functions. I think we actually met decades ago, back in the days when I was a sportswriter for The Dispatch and covered his daughter, Anna, who was a stellar tennis player for the Lexington Yellow Jackets and a force to reckon with statewide.

Steve Hinkle

 I knew at one time that Ken and his wife, Mary, operated a restaurant in town (I can still taste the chicken pie. Mmmm mmm), but I didn't know that before that, he ran the Ice Cream Well. That was before I arrived in Lexington and Kim said his place had the best French fries ever. She still misses them.

Whenever Ken found me, he'd take me aside and we'd talk about nearly anything that came to his mind – although it was likely sports – and ask my opinion on it. And I knew it wasn't just for conversation's sake because Ken was as sincere as they came. I could tell because of his smile. And his eyes.

I came to find out that he was a faithful reader of my blog and I took that as a big compliment. It let me know that some of my blogs ranged across generations.

Mary Wood Willard

A day or two later, Kim was perusing the laptop when, out of the blue, she asked me, "Did you know Steve Hinkle? Did he have anything to do with sports?"

Uh-oh. I had an idea where this was going. I went to where Kim was sitting and stood over her shoulder. And there, on the laptop, was Steve's picture, along with his obituary.

Steve was a longtime coach at North Davidson, especially football and golf, and since I was a sports writer for The Dispatch, we primarily dealt with each other on professional terms. I remember Steve as a straight shooter who never failed to answer my questions, whether his team won or lost. That's something a sports writer can appreciate.

Steve, 75, was also a high school basketball official and I'd occasionally see him at basketball games that I was covering. He always had a wave, a smile and a brief chat with me. That was nice.

But how come it takes an obituary to find out something new about somebody? I never knew he and I had the same birthday – February 12. That knowledge seemed to tighten the connection we had. I just couldn't share it with him when I found out.

The week already seemed to be relentlessly difficult, but a day later I got a text from a former colleague at NewBridge Bank (where I worked part-time after retiring from The Dispatch) informing me that Rodney Walser had passed. This was too much. Too much for one week. Too much to process.

Rodney was my supervisor at NewBridge, and you couldn't have asked to meet a nicer, calmer, collected person. The interesting thing about Rodney was that he came to what was then Lexington State Bank in 1990 straight after graduating from North Davidson. No college degree. No associate's degree. Just the smarts he carried in his brain.

And the best part was that his talent and abilities were recognized by the higher ups almost from the start. He worked for LSB/NewBridge for 27 years, becoming an assistant vice president and the supervisor of the Items Processing Department. I think he made life as easy as he could for the people in his department. At least, that's how I saw it. He was a natural leader.

When NewBridge began downsizing and reorganizing to become First National Bank, Rodney quickly found a job at Breeden Insurance, where he soon became the floor manager.

Rodney was a big man with a big heart, and everybody he met seemed to be drawn – almost inexorably – into his circle of friendship. It was shocking to me when he died, even more shocking to learn that he was only 50.

The question has been asked by songwriters and philosophers, from poets to pastors, "Does anyone know where the love of God goes?" 

It's been a tough week. I think the love of God goes silently from soul to soul, in our actions, in our interdependency on others, in our own love for what is dear to us. 

I think I know four souls who found that love.